Clutching his invisibility cloak around his shivering shoulders, Harry padded through the dungeon corridors, desperately trying not to notice how creepy the narrow, subterranean hallways were without Professor Snape’s presence. Whilst the Potions Master reigned, his fellow troglodytes were mere children who would scatter from his tall, striding figure or clutch onto the tails of his billowing robes. However, although most people thought Snape the epitome of a dark wizard, Harry couldn’t help but feel a true darkness had descended in his absence: it was the difference between a serene, moonlit evening and one of those nights when one fears to step out into the darkness which coats the world like tar.

Eventually, Harry stood before the portrait which, in a way, had started it all. It seemed a little too apt but, Harry thought gloomily, the coincidence wasn’t surprising; the Wizard in the portrait, Herpo, was the first basilisk breeder, so it was only fitting that his portrait hung in the Snakes' domain. Herpo’s portrait, Dumbledore had informed Harry, guarded a corridor which only a Parselmouth could reach.

Feeling distinctly uncomfortable, Harry shifted from one frozen foot to the other whilst staring at Herpo’s undulating pet serpent.

*“Er… Hello”* he fssed uncertainly.

*“What! Ssshow yoursssself, ssssserpent ssspeaker!”* spat the elderly wizard, his golden eyes aflame with suspicion.

After a moment of indecision and a quick glance at the Marauder’s map, Harry swiftly tugged the the hood down, revealing himself.

*“Ah, the dissssappearing sssnakelet. Well, well.”* the mage folded his blue robed arms.

*“I need to enter the nest you guard”* Harry whispered, his voice sharp with anxiety.

The portrait raised one bushy eyebrow *“I think you’ve bitten Onyx enough, sssnakelet. Go to your family nesssst and sssleep away your venom.”*

*“Onyx? You mean the Mage-water Basilisk?”* Harry hissed nervously.

*“The sssame. Now, ssslither along.”* spat Herpo, fixing Harry’s invisible form with a beady gaze.

*“Pleasse!”* Harry hissed *“I do not hunt Onyx as prey.”*

*“Why do you sssseek him?”* psshed the ancient mage sceptically.

*“To draw my venom from hiss ssscalesss”* the teenager replied sadly.

Herpo shook his head *“Ass you wisssh. However, if you hiss that the ssssun iss black, Myrridin will give venom unto you. He isss old and hisss fangsss are sharp.”*

*“I hiss that the sssun iss gold”* Harry fssed truculently as Herpo’s portrait flipped forward, revealing a narrow stairwell of honey-coloured stone. Taking a deep breath, the teenage boy climbed through the portrait hole onto the first step. As he alighted, a small lamp overhead flickered into life, then another and another, until Harry’s wide eyes beheld the climb in all it’s intimidating glory. The stairs seemed to span an entire side of the castle!

As Harry ascended, he found himself wondering over the peaceful, almost spiritual atmosphere of the steep stairwell. With its high walls, the windowless passage should have felt claustrophobic or, at least, depressing but, instead, the ambiance was of a room which had known no malice, fear or pain, only love.

Just when Harry’s legs were tightening with the leaden weight of overexertion, the steps spiralled off onto a long gallery. Leaning against the oak balustrade, Harry noticed that the honey stone walls were set with a myriad of arched, stained glass windows, each depicting a stylised rowan tree.

Harry shook his head and wandered over to a window, tracing the lead-lined glass with a callused fingertip. The vibrant, golden berries, set against verdant green leaves, were almost hypnotic in the way they drew the eye and Harry found himself wondering why nobody had noticed these beautiful windows or, if they had, why this ‘lost’ gallery was not one of the school legends.

Harry unfurled the Marauder’s Map; apparently, he was currently standing within a wall.

“None so blind, my lad, as those whose eyes look always inward.”

Green eyes wide as galleons, heart racing, Harry turned.

He was not a ghost, as such. Nothing so corporeal. No, it was as if the pale moonlight, in streaming through the window, had reflected the image of a man onto the air: the wizard's heavy, woollen robe echoed the grey-green leaves, his skin was as pale as the rowan flowers and the golden hue of the glass berries refracted into long, auburn hair. Only the ghost's stormy-grey eyes did not take hue from the stained glass.

Swallowing, Harry bit back his first, rather rude question but the spirit appeared to read the query in his eyes.

“I am a vortex, young Harry. I have nae human form, save that which is recalled by these here casements.”

Harry nodded uncertainly “Um, you’re Professor Myrridin, right?”

“Aye, that I am.” the shade replied, turning to face Harry. “Ye have come for one under my protection?”

Harry twiddled with the frayed hem of his pyjama top. “I know I shouldn’t have spoken to Professor Snape like that; he couldn’t have known that Moldywart would react as he did and… and I know now he tried his best to protect us.”

Myrridin’s eyes were hard “It’s not been the first time, lad, nor the second that this poor soul’s faced unjust censure from ye.”

Harry bit his lip “Look, Snape and I got off on the wrong foot; we thought we knew all about each other and, because of that, we both behaved badly.”

“Severus has never physically harmed you.”

“What?” Harry gasped, shock and indignation blurring in his emerald eyes. “I never..!”

The gallery shimmered for a moment, then their surroundings bled and merged; suddenly, the honey stone morphed into a thicket of grey-brown tree trunks, the pale, golden floorboards brightening to lush, green-yellow grass, upon which five, prostrate figures lay.

Breath still in his lungs, Harry saw himself lying, glasses askew, next to Hermione, whose brown hair hung across her face like a veil. A yard or so away, Ron lay crumpled on the ground, his face grey in the starlight.

Movement caught Harry’s eye and he turned to see Snape struggling into a sitting position, his countenance unusually pale and drawn. With a pained expression in his dark eyes, the Potions Master gingerly touched the back of his head. To Harry’s horror, blood shone on the man’s long fingers.

“You allowed Lupin and Black to beat him.” Myrridin’s cold voice intoned.

“No!” Harry cried, turning in the direction of the voice. “No one laid a hand on him!” Memory flooded back, bringing a blush to the teenager’s cheeks “Well, Sirius might not have been too careful with levitating him… but no one harmed him on purpose.”

Harry’s surroundings blurred again, and, this time, he found himself in Professor Snape’s office, watching the Potions Master apply burn salve to his calf, which was scorched raw.

“So intent was he on saving ye, that he ignored the fire your young friend started, though it did pain him terribly.”

Harry swallowed “I didn’t know they were going to do it. I didn’t.”

“Ye thought it a good tale, even when the man was proved innocent.” Myrridin replied scathingly.

“Look, I was a right brat to him and I’m sorry. I didn’t know how badly he’d been hurt.”

“Nae lad” the scenery shimmered and bled back into the image of the gallery, “Ye didn’t care.”

The teenaged boy felt a lump growing in his throat and, swallowing down a wail at the injustice of it all, whispered “But I do now.”

Myrridin gazed at Harry, a coolly appraising look in his flint-blue eyes “So, ye know better now and, ifn I relinquish my care, ye’ll treat him well?”

“Yes.” Harry promised desperately.

“And, by that you mean sending him to the mercy of his auld master, whom ye ken has none?”

Harry blinked, shocked to the core by the bitter scorn in Myrridin’s tone “But…” The teenage boy paused, trying to gather his wayward thoughts. Professor Myrridin was a guardian spirit, so Ron’s plight would gain his sympathies, right?

“You see, there’s this boy in my year, Ron, whose been captured by V… Moldywart and he’s going to kill him.” Harry swallowed “Ron’s family are dead upset; Dumbledore's had to tell them that Ron's been taken ill with a highly contagious strain of Dragonpox: Moldywart said he'd kill Ron if Dumbledore tells anyone, he want's to keep his return secret, Dumbledore thinks. Anyway, Ron's family are really scared he'll die; his little sister’s crying and his brothers’ are well quiet and serious, which isn’t like them at all. Only Snape can save him so we really, really need him back…”

oOoOo

Streaming sunlight battered against Harry’s tired eyes, drawing him back to aching consciousness. Turning over onto his stomach, Harry felt a dull, grazing pain as his right boot scraped against his left ankle.

Fully awake, Harry sat bolt upright, staring at his half-invisible, half-pyjama clad body.

A heavy, leaden feeling suffused the teenager’s heart; Myriddin must have, somehow, moved him to the Gryffindor Dorm last night. Although hope flickered, like a half-smothered flame, Harry knew, deep down, that he had failed.

Climbing out of bed, Harry threw his robe over his pyjamas and, tiptoeing around his slumbering friends' beds, slipped through the door.

Walking through the empty corridors, passing between cold shadow and warm sunlight, Harry couldn’t help but think about his friendship with Professor Snape. Although he’d once loathed the man, distaining his blatant favouritism towards Slytherin and the wanton cruelty he lavished on everyone else, Harry was beginning to realise that, since first year, he had relied on Snape. Yes, okay, catching sight of that tall, severe figure bearing down on him, robes billowing like a vampire’s wings, dark eyes ablaze, had, more than once, given Harry heart-failure and, indeed, the teenage boy had spent long evenings devising plans to avoid detection by the Potions Monster. But, and it was an important but, Harry had always known that, if things went ass up, Snape would protect him. Take last year, for example; Snape had raced down to protect three disrespectful, arrogant kids from a convicted mass-murderer and a werewolf. Okay, afterwards he’d been petty, spiteful, deaf to the truth but, nevertheless...

Gazing out of window, Harry caught sight of the Whomping Willow; Snape had almost died there as a teenager and, if Black really had been a killer or the moon had risen five minutes earlier… Well, perhaps Snape had deserved that Order of Merlin.

Harry sighed; he didn’t understand his logic. Part of him wanted to be protected, to have the security of knowing that someone else was responsible for his safety and, now Snape was gone, Harry felt strangely vulnerable, like a kid left at home alone. However, at the same time, Harry knew that, as soon as danger reared its ugly head, he’d curse Snape for fettering his independence, for standing between Harry and his chosen foe.

In a way, the teenager couldn’t blame Myrridin from refusing to release Snape to return to such a thankless task.

Sighing, Harry whispered the password, ‘Peverell”, to Dumbledore’s Gargoyle and let himself into the Headmaster’s office. As he opened the heavy, intricately carved door, Harry saw, much to his suprise, that the usually energetic, albiet elderly wizard had fallen asleep in his chair. A quill, still clasped in a wrinkled, frail hand, leaked ink into Professor Dumbledore's snowy beard. He had obviously been up all night.

“Um, Sir.” Harry said tentatively, padding across the room and touching the Headmaster’s thin shoulder.

Dumbledore jerked awake, and, focusing his eyes on Harry, murmured “Ah, dear boy, pray forgive me.” Sitting up, the Headmaster straightened his half-moon glasses and motioned for Harry to sit. “I trust you found the corridor?”

Harry nodded “Yeah and I met Myrridin but” he added, his heart falling at the prospect of quashing the hope in those innocent blue eyes “I think I failed, Professor. I talked to him, Myrridin, for a bit and, well I thought he was coming ‘round” the teenager said wretchedly. “But then I mentioned Ron and the next thing I knew, I was waking up in the Gryffindor dorms.”

Professor Dumbledore shut his eyes and, as he did so, his glasses tipped askew on a nose which now had two ridges. Harry couldn’t help but wonder whether Snape had forgiven Dumbledore before he’d disappeared: the Potions Master had been furious with the Headmaster and, although Harry couldn’t blame Snape, far from it, he still felt a squirm of guilt when he remembered the almost indulgent tone Dumbledore always had in his voice when he talked about the younger teacher.

When Dumbledore spoke, however, his voice was steady “I’m sure you did your best, my boy” he said kindly, patting Harry’s hand. “Myrridin was a difficult man, by all accounts. Although, as a general rule, it is wise to judge others as one would judge themselves… well, the man possessed every possible virtue save compassion for the mistakes of others.”

“I’ll try again, Sir.” Harry promised. “I know Professor Snape will want to be free because… because I would and Snape and I are the same like that, aren’t we?”

Although his blue eyes were saturated with sadness, Dumbledore smiled “Indeed, my boy, I have often thought so, particularly on the many occasions when either you or Professor Snape stood in front of this desk, angry over some or other example of the other’s arrogance or unkindness, stubbornly refuting the validity of my opinions and indignant at what you presumed my blind favouritism. I was so pleased” the elderly mage’s voice trembled “So pleased when you resolved your feud.”  

“Me too. I understood, though, Sir." Harry replied quietly, answering the unspoken sentiment. "I get why you placed me with the Dursleys, I mean. You had to think about more people than just me.”

When Dumbledore’s blue eyes met Harry’s, the teenager was shocked to see that they shone with unshed tears. “Thank you, my boy.”

“And I will persuade Myrridin to release Professor Snape” Harry said, his throat tightening. “I promise.”